


Seasons

by rillaelilz



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Pining, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 14:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: It tastes somewhat like magic, the way Fili's fingers call life into things; the way they feel and caress, before they evertouch- and it sits like a stubborn knot at the mouth of Kili's stomach.





	Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the WinterFRE 2018, prompt #52. Calloused hands.
> 
> This one is for Erica, because let's face it, I'd never write anything if it weren't for you, bro *smoochers* So um, you guys know whom to blame for this :P Also I was kind of in a rush (I can't even feel my hands anymore), and I didn't re-read it, so. Yeah.

 

 

There is wonder in the little things; in a familiar tune hummed before a crackling fire; in the likeness of a wolf or a bird honed from a block of wood in Fili's hands, curl after curl carefully shaved away to reveal unexpected beauty beneath.

It tastes somewhat like magic, the way Fili's fingers call life into things; the way they feel and caress, before they ever _touch_ \- and it sits like a stubborn knot at the mouth of Kili's stomach.

Fili giggles at his parted lips, mistaking fascination for confusion, and offers to show Kili the secrets to easy carving, if Kili can find the patience to listen.

Kili is tempted to sit with him and watch him work; but his eyes don't see the knife or the steady fall of wood chips. His gaze lingers on nimble fingers and rolling wrists instead, on the twists and angles and curves of Fili's hands.

And so he flees,

“Tomorrow, perhaps-”

a coward in the face of peril, taking two steps at a time until he's shutting their bedroom door and pressing his back hard against it.

He should tell Fili next time, say he doesn't need this. Kili's already got secrets of his own.

 

 

Winter comes creeping in slowly, a whispering chill that settles upon the village long before the first snow. It’s nothing but the usual; there’s little enough game to bring home for dinner, and more firewood to carry about. Chimneys take to streaming clouds of smoke, and the house sweetens with the scent of honey and baked apples.

It’s a time for warm furs and tight chatter by the fireside, for hot tea and long, heartening visits before the cold becomes too bitter for society.

Master Balin’s voice is pleasant white noise while Kili and Fili work with thread and needle, each mending their own socks. Kili finds himself listening, as Fili pokes a finger in a hole in the wool and waves him hello.

Surely there is wisdom in Balin’s words; in his speeches about history, and roots, and the true meaning of contentment. Happiness is often in a simple life, he says, wrinkled hands tucked together underneath the white tufts of his beard, and a simple life is in the fulfillment of simple wishes.

Kili giggles, soft behind the shelter of the kitchen door, and jokes with his brother – as long as they have Ma’s stew and her pies, what more could they wish for?

But there are things on his mind; things that keep him from contentment these days. Things hidden in the glint of a needle in the candlelight, and the fingers holding it, thick and shapely and strong.

 

Later, Kili thinks about his childhood, and what it felt like when warm milk before bed and a ride on uncle Thorin’s shoulders were enough to make his day.

He tries to conjure that feeling; the one he used to find in his favourite cookies, or his favourite bowl, or the old orange blanket which Ma had to patch up about nine times, before he was ready to give it up. That cosy feeling wrapped deep in his belly, the sort of fulfillment they say only children and kings can ever know.

It’s from so long ago, and yet it’s fresh, fresh in his mind like yesterday’s storm, for Kili can still feel it. When his hand brushes against Fili’s as they pass potatoes around the table, at supper; and when Fili kneads the soreness from his shoulders the next night, cool oils and lukewarm fingertips digging and smoothing over Kili’s muscles. Those times when Fili drapes his own coat over Kili’s back before going ahead with the evening’s washing up. And when Kili’s bent over Balin’s crammed handwriting, and Fili will absentmindedly reach out to tuck a lock of brown hair behind Kili’s ear, a smile playing on his lips.

It’s that same feeling of contentment; the relief of holding a long-coveted prize. Life _is_ in simple wishes, after all. Kili just happens to wish for his brother’s touch.

 

 

They busy their winter nights with little pastimes; a song or two with their fiddles when the day's chores are done, a game of chess when Dwalin is around and they have the extra time to frustrate him.

Sometimes Thorin will stay behind to smoke his pipe, and Fili might join him; on those nights, Kili stokes the fire and curls up on Father's armchair, humming quietly to himself. He hasn't acquired a taste for pipesmoke yet, but he doesn't mind the peaceful atmosphere around them.

He doesn't mind watching either, half-hidden in the shadows, as Fili's lips part around soft tendrils of smoke and delicate shapes chase each other in the dim light, clouds and waves and dragon tongues, voluptuous, entrancing.

Sometimes they'll sit alone, just the two of them, whittling away and picking up tunes from each other, mixing up the round vowels of Westron and the harsher peaks of Khuzdul.

It is only when the words touch Fili's lips that Kili feels he's grasping the truth of their people's heritage, as if for the first time. That Khuzdul isn't only meant for the pomp of royal halls and the rage of battle, but for whispers as well. For the sharing of secrets and the murmurs of lovers; for the bittersweet flavour of old tales, and the low-burning fire of intimacy.

And when it comes with the hushed sound of Fili's voice, all of Kili strains to soak it up, like a cat in the sun - the very core of him plunged into warmth, rousing and foreign at once.

Thus pass the weeks, heat pooling in Kili's bones, goosebumps scattered across the surface. If Fili asks why he shivers, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, the answer is ready on the tip of Kili's tongue.

“It's only the cold, Fee.”

 

 

Well after Yule, a new bird emerges from Fili’s diligent hands. He lays the knife aside, smoothing out the bas-relief of feathers and wings with gentle fingers, and the corners of his mouth turn upwards into a grin.

“Look, Kee,” he beckons, holding the little raven out for Kili to see, “this is you.”

And though it’s silly, Kili can’t tear his gaze away from either the bird or the hands cradling it.

Firelight changes body hair into golden lint over the back of Fili’s hands, and turns the roughness of his palms into rosy shadows and honey-like skin. If only they could touch him, Kili swallows – if he could have them but for a moment on his skin, stroking and holding him, just the way they hold mere wood now. If Fili could take him, all of him, and fashion him into something new and alive and beautiful, and Fili’s own to keep. But it’s never that easy.

“That’s a very odd owl you’ve got there, Fee. Sure you still know how to carve?”

Fili’s teeth flash white with his laugh, nose crinkling in mock outrage.

“How dare you insult my masterpiece?”

There’s relief even in this.

 

That night, when Kili lies awake in his bed, he turns his face into the pillow and fills his mind with thoughts of Fili, sampling the quality of his touch, the texture of his skin, the silky ringlets in his hair. He wishes and hopes for dreams of his brother, but they won’t come.

 

 

Soon frost melts into dew, and the world stops holding its breath.

This spring is a lazy thing, much like a cat, and possibly just as fickle; rain graces them every other day, thick and rumbling at first, then thin and cold, pit-pattering cheerfully against their rooftop.

It’s a few weeks before the sun shines properly upon them, greeting Dis’ laundry with a benevolent nod. Kili is grateful; the fields are wet and the blue of the sky uncertain, but everything green looks greener now, and his mother’s smiles feel genuine again, as the twirling of her skirts flickers from the puddles in their backyard.

Fili’s gaze finds him more often, across rooms and hallways – eyes gleaming in plain sunlight, sleeves rolled up to wash dishes or fix the hinges of a window. And as ice thaws from the mountain peaks, desire clots thickly in Kili’s belly.

They take to working in the smithy when Thorin is away, mostly under Dwalin’s watchful eye. The job is nothing grand; there are no great swords to forge, but enough cooking pots to mend, horses to shoe, and kitchen knives to sharpen, and the work is quite becoming on Fili.

Fili dealing with customers, it’s a pleasure to see. Even though he’s usually of the quiet sort, his brother always has a kind word for everyone, dwarves and Men alike, and Kili loves this side of him.

Fili has patience for the occasional small talk and the butcher’s constant prattle, and apparently, the tendency to charm elderly ladies as well. It must be the dimples, Kili grins to himself, watching from the back of the shop as yet another dwarrowdam falls victim to his brother’s charm. That, and the soothing quality of his voice, the endearing blue of his eyes, and his penchant for keeping his promises.

One of the oldest ladies is so grateful for the returning of her favourite pan, she shows up the next day with mince pies and mead for he and Kili to share.

But Kili is no hypocrite; there’s not only Fili’s kind heart to take into account.

Indeed, Kili steals glances here and there, ready to catch the flitting of muscles in Fili’s bare forearms, and to study the way his shirt stretches over his shoulders and sweat glistens on Fili’s brow, pooling in the sweet valley between his shoulder blades, in the hollow of his throat.

A new, strange kind of thirst wells within Kili, rasping in the back of his throat, but he only hands Fili a clean cloth to wipe his flushed skin with, lends him spare arms to help, and a bit of gossip to spice up a boring afternoon.

 

 

Rain comes back on time to surprise Kili, ambushing him in the woods like a wild boar. He comes home completely drenched, soaked to the bone and shivering, the wet chill of it clinging to his very soul.

He’s not surprised when the fever takes over him, burning much like fire underneath his skin; however, that doesn’t stop him from passing out in the middle of the kitchen, and mercifully enough, his head hits Fili’s shoulder rather than the hard planks of the table.

This time, the dreams do come, a steady stream flooding Kili’s mind as he drifts in and out of sleep. Visions blend into each other, hazy and yet strangely clear.

He dreams of pale pipesmoke, woven into patterns of rolling waves around him, and golden flames licking painlessly at his fingertips, cool as a gust of wind.

He dreams of raven wings, black-blue feathers crafted for him by Fili’s hands, and in the dream they weigh nothing on his shoulders.

But most of all he dreams of Fili, of his plaited hair spilling like gold dust against the amber-like column of his neck. He dreams, and dreams, and watches Fili’s skin settle against his own, naked and impossibly warm, his legs spread generously, tenderly around Kili’s hips. His fingers align with the dips between Kili’s ribs to feel the breath underneath, and Kili arches up into him, bares his throat to the touch of Fili’s lips.

“You’re all I ever wanted,” Fili promises in his ear, kissing behind the soft shell of it; it’s so perfect, it nearly breaks Kili’s heart.

 

 

He wakes to the sound of Fili’s voice calling his name, a sticky wetness clinging to his eyelashes. Something touches his cheeks, soothing – he can’t tell if it’s Fili, or the cooling traces of tears.

“Kili,” his brother chides softly, “you idiot, you really scared me there.”

There it is, then; Fili’s palm cupping his face, thumb swiping back and forth over the fragile skin beneath Kili’s eye.

“Fili,” Kili acknowledges, all but sighing at the cold, shuddering touch of his brother’s hand. “Fili.”

“Yes.”

He’s so close, Kili thinks half-drunkenly, close enough to kiss. Enough to taste the bitter tang of tobacco on his lips and smell the scent of lemongrass hidden in the crook of his neck, fresh and tingling on the flat of Kili’s tongue. Their noses brush against each other and Kili hums, leaning blindly up into Fili, dizzy and content and heavy all over.

“Fili,” he mumbles, feverish, head turned into Fili’s hand _. I want the smell of you on my skin_ , he thinks, lips moving mindlessly along with his thoughts, and when he opens his eyes, there’s a shadow crossing Fili’s face.

“You- you should get some rest,” Fili says. Kili wants to protest, but he’s tired, so very tired, and soon he’s drifting back into a quiet, dreamless slumber.

 

 

Spring blooms into summer leisurely, trading the occasional storm for sweet drizzles, and delicate flowers for juicy, ripening fruit. Their mild weather bursts into heat all at once, and it sizzles like fireworks down Kili’s spine.

Some say that with heat comes a little madness, and Kili can feel it ripple within his chest, subtle and impatient.

At night they stay up to watch the stars rise and fall across a cloudless sky, breathing in the earthy, sugary scent of berries and grass and fresh soil, and when day comes, they undress by the river, quick and stumbling like thieves caught in broad daylight, and dive into the sparkling waters for a swim.

Madness or not, something crackles like static around Kili when Fili’s close by, and his skin prickles with it.

For weeks it keeps him on his toes, an unsteady balance in Kili’s hands – a pot full to the brim and threatening to spill. And then midsummer comes, and Kili is lost.

It’s only irrational, really. One morning they’re down in the kitchen for a quick breakfast before they must see to their chores, and that’s all it takes. Dis is away, out for a visit to a family friend in the village just over the hill, and that’s as much a mercy as it is an excuse for Kili to lose his mind.

Because that’s what happens – the moment strawberry jam falls in a slow, glittering drop over the back of Fili’s hand, Kili is gone for.

He finds there can be no other explanation; not when he reaches out , unthinking, and brings Fili’s hand to his mouth, collecting the spilled jam with the tip of his tongue.

And if this qualifies as madness, his next move is a simple mistake.

He doesn’t mean to meet Fili’s eyes, but he does, it happens – a split second that might last forever, expanding between them, drawn out with the soft grazing of Kili’s tongue against Fili’s knuckle. And Fili’s eyes, when Kili meets them, are dark and intent.

So he runs; stands up, turns on his heels, and flees – or tries to. Fili holds onto his wrist and doesn’t let go, is grip tight like a vise.

“Kili,” he only says. But there’s hardly need for more. Kili always admired this in his brother – his ability to express so much with a single word, as if feelings were that easy. _This_ word sounds firm, and angry, and broken all at once, and Kili is scared, scared, simply, terribly scared.

“Stop toying with me, brother,” Fili says. Kili shivers.

“I never meant to- I never-”

He swallows. Fili’s closing the distance between them, and though Kili doesn’t dare look back, he can feel it, hear it, each step like a countdown to the moment he loses everything he’s ever held dear.

“If this is just a game to you,” Fili growls, heaving chest just a breath away from Kili’s back, “then just say the word now, and this has never happened.”

His brother, always so merciful. But to forget about this? Kili can’t even begin to contemplate it. How to pretend this never happened? How, when the taste of Fili’s skin is still on his tongue, and his lips still tingle where they touched him? Oh, it’s _madness_.

And yet Fili’s hands are on him, skimming up along his forearms until they’re nestled in the curve of Kili’s elbows, fingertips dipping just so in the crinkles of Kili’s sleeves.

“But Kili-” his brother stammers, “if you want me—if you do want me, the way I want you—”

And Kili, Kili can’t help the low, gasping sound forming in his throat.

Their bodies come together, naturally drawn to each other, meeting with a sigh that is as much anticipation as it is relief. Kili leans back into Fili’s chest, and Fili’s arms are around him, hands clutching at him just under the slope of Kili’s ribcage. Kili can only twine their fingers, latch onto Fili with what little willpower he has, as Fili nuzzles in the soft crook between his neck and shoulder.

He tips his head back, lost, or perhaps only just found.

“I don’t know if I can trust myself with this,” he whispers breathlessly.

Fili’s lips ghost over his skin, sweet like a promise.

“Then trust _me_.”

 

When he turns in his brother’s arms, it’s as if the world itself were shaking beneath his feet, sent askew with the look in Fili’s eyes.

Kili never knew this moment could be so fragile. He never knew he could feel so exposed, so vulnerable, and yet so powerful in the face of his brother’s desire.

Static crackles through his spine. If he were lightning, blind and frayed and falling, Fili would be the ground calling out to him, and anything standing between them would surely burn; but he is only Kili, earthly bones and star-gazing eyes, and at last he knows – nothing has to break or burn for Fili and him to come together.

And so, when Fili kisses him, it’s soft, quiet; so quiet, Kili can hear every single beat of his heart, loud and echoing in the hollow of his chest.

 

 

From summer to fall, they mark each day with stolen kisses, from the golden haze of the harvest, to the twinkling shower of shooting stars in August, to the first blush of pink on new apples, waiting for the red-gold glory of a waning September.

They learn the feeling of each other’s warmth, of every breath drawn and lost between them, chest to chest, and Kili is happy.

Happy when they share glances from afar and happy when they indulge in a lingering touch, away from prying eyes. Happy when they have to be quiet, and stifle every sound for fear of being heard, and possibly even happier when all they can spare is a quick fumbling in the woodshed, up against the rough walls, biting back moans and sighs and working each other to completion. Sometimes Fili will fall to his knees, head between Kili’s legs, calloused hands cupped around Kili’s hips, cradling him, spreading him, and Kili will tangle his fingers in his brother’s hair, trying to keep himself from crying out in bliss.

It’s no less beautiful, nor less precious than when they can wrap around each other, easy and tender and soft, hidden away in their bedroom at night, cloaked in the safety of darkness.

He wouldn’t change this for anything in the world. He’s content to live like this for the rest of his life, if he has to, and it won’t matter as long as he has Fili, and Fili will have him.

It’s all he ever wanted, after all. A simple wish, for a simple life.

 


End file.
